Street art

Chalk artists have been out and about; here are a couple of the latest.

This one is pretty straightforward.

This one was a whole village.

 

Voices from the fringes: After what you didn't do

Mai Der Vang was born in Fresno, California, in 1981, the daughter of Hmong refugees who came to the San Joaquin Valley in the aftermath of the Vietnam War. Much of her poetry probes the Hmong experiences in America, but “In the Year of Permutations”—written last year—is savagely on point given the trial right now of Derek Chauvin for the murder of George Floyd.

Vang dismantles the narrative Chauvin and the Minneapolis Police Department deployed about doing his job by kneeling on Floyd’s neck for more than nine minutes while he lay face down in the street with his hands cuffed behind him. (I’ve found it fascinating over the past week to watch as one after another MPD official tsk-tsks and deplores Chauvin’s actions; last year this was not at all their song.)

In particular, Vang addresses Tou Thao, a nine-year veteran of MPD who stood by while Chauvin literally crushed the life out of Floyd. Thao, a member of the Hmong community, initially backed up Chauvin’s story, although he watered it down by saying he didn’t actually see what was going on, because he was engaged in crowd control. Vang excoriates whatever the Hmong equivalent of Uncle Tom would be.

“In the Year of Permutations”

Go live with yourself after what you didn’t do.

Go and be left behind. Pre-package
                              your defense, tell yourself

                                                      you were doing
             your oath, guarding the futility of
            
                   your corrupted good,

              discerning the currency of some.

                                   As if them over all else.
                                         Over us.
                                    Above God and Spirit.
                                        
                          You over me, you think.

This is no shelter in justice not sheltering with
enclosure of soft iron a sheltering of injustices
into an inferno flooding of your crimes committed
and sheltered by most culprit of them all.

                      These nesting days come
outward springs of truth,

                    dismantle the old structures,

their impulse for colony—I am done
                                                    with it, the likes of you.

To perpetrate.
To perpetrate lack of closure, smolders of unrest.
To perpetrate long days alone, centuries gone deprived.

                             To be complicit in adding to the
                   perpetration of power on a neck,
                            there and shamed,

                             court of ancestors to disgrace
              you, seeing and to have done nothing.

Think you can be like them.

Work like them.
Talk like them.

Never truly to be accepted,
                                            always a pawn.

 

 

Auld lang syne

Wherever you are and whatever your situation (since I know for a fact that no billionaires read this blog*), I’m hoping you’ll join me in giving 2020 a punt over the horizon. Whether you drink alcohol or not; eat some special food or not (and I hope you have food); commune with a higher power or not; celebrate alone or safely socially distanced—I think we can all agree that this has been one lousy year the world over.

As you know, later tonight I shall symbolically torch it and wash its taste out of my mouth with champagne. Whatever gets you through the transition, I’m with you.

It’s clear we aren’t done with Republican fuckery; at time of writing, Moscow Mitch is standing firm against COVID relief for the masses; the junior Senator from Missouri is ensuring a Congressional circus on 6 January; Cadet Bonespurs’ administration is refusing to share critical intelligence on adversaries with Biden’s team; vaccine distribution is a complete and utter clusterfuck (quelle surprise) and—in short—it’s business as usual.

The evil men do lives long after their political gig; there’s absolutely no good at all to be interrèd with their old, White male bones.

But tomorrow the fight continues. So take a cup o’ kindness, dropkick 2020 right out the door and suit up for 2021. Here's something to help the transition.

*The closest I get is Facebook’s scan of my posts; the scan that will label this content as “sensitive”.

 

 

I've got a little list

At the end of every year, I practice the custom of burning El Año Viejo. This is a thing in some parts of Latin America, and I find it very therapeutic. 

Here’s the deal: You make up an effigy with old clothes and in one form or another (some folks stuff with fireworks, others just straw or paper). Then you add symbols of all your angers, disappointments, frustrations, hurts and harmful associations of the year. You can do this by attaching objects (the handkerchief you used when you drank too much at the office picnic and puked; the ticket to the concert where you saw your ex with a blonde ten years younger and 20 pounds lighter than you; the physics test you tanked on), or you can just write the negatives on slips of paper.

The dummy represents El Año Viejo—the old year, with all its baggage you would be carrying forward into the new one.

Come midnight on 31st December, you light it up and burn that sucker to ashes, taking all the bad things out of your life, at least the ones from the old year. And so you're left with the good and the positive to take you into the New Year.

Entire families or groups collaborate on the event, and it’s quite the celebration.

Now me—people get nervous when they see me stuffing clothes with flammable substances or firecrackers, so what I do is write a list of every craptastic thing from El Año Viejo. Then I torch it, abjuring all the bad stuff to stay in the past.

I’m a big believer in the power of symbol and ritual. Reducing El Año Viejo to ashes always makes me feel better—lighter, ready to face the New Year.

Here’s the thing: as old and as cynical as I am, I had not realized how full this country is with truly ghastly excuses for human beings, released and invigorated by four years of largely unfettered Republican rule. From the psychopathic narcissistic nihilist in the White House; through the reptilian Senate Majority Leader; to lickspittles like Graham, Gaetz, DeSantis and Paxton; to kleptocrats like Perdue, Loeffler and Tillis; to the ignorance-engorged slavering millions who defy not only medical science but also common decency because “mah rahts”—they have brought about the deaths of more than 320,000 and the destitution of hundreds of thousands more, the cracking of our healthcare system and the obscene profiteering of the corporate class in a country that for decades was a beacon of democracy and generosity to the world.

This year, I honestly have been gobsmacked by the extent of douchebaggery that pervades our society. White douchebaggery, if I’m honest. And I am also sickened by it.

So my El Año Viejo  list is longer than usual The last thing I do before calling a wrap on 2020 tomorrow will be to set the whole fucking twelve months ablaze, finish a glass of champagne and take a shower.

I hope it works.

Special offer

I was amused to find this in my mailbox on Saturday:

Seriously—I don’t know when it left Verizon, but it showed up at my doorstep a month later.

But then, this arrived yesterday:

I’m really not upset that the USPS displayed a remarkable lack of interest in timely delivery. Having Verizon Fios for a year in Arlington made me appreciate Comcast’s idea of customer service /s, so I will never use them for any telecoms service except with a gun to my head. (They were also awful as a cell provider, although not as bad as AT&T.) And given my druthers, I’d prefer that my prescriptions be delivered on time over junk mail.

But it was still funny.

 

 

Gratitude Monday: Even in the nightmare

Just for ducks, I checked my last Gratitude Monday of 2019. Because that was so, so many decades ago. Turns out that last year I was mostly grateful for landing my job in cyber security. Yeah, that was good. But 12 months later, it seems so…quaint.

This 2020 really was annus horribilis, wasn’t it? If you’re not a billionaire, I mean. Because if you were a billionaire, this was the year you became a multi-billionaire; capitalism, man. But for the rest of us, this has been bewildering, impoverishing, frustrating, terrifying, infuriating and—for more than 320,000 of us in this country alone—murderous.

Still, I have plenty of things to drop in the gratitude box.

That job, for one. I am a soldier in the war against cyber criminals and cyber terrorists. Unless you’ve been living in a cave without Internet, you know what’s been going on this year. There’s a lot you don’t know about that’s even worse. I am thoroughly, profoundly grateful that my company is fighting on every front, and that I am a part of that fight.

This year I got to go to the security conference as a full-fledged attendee, which got me into amazing talks and fascinating conversations. I’d been to RSA several times as a free attendee, but that gets you nothing except aching joints and some tee shirts. This time I felt like I was welcomed, except by that one guy at a competitor’s booth, who took one look at my employer’s name on my badge and refused to tell me anything about their software. (He did the same to one of my colleagues later.) I don’t think I ever have to go again, but it was a great experience.

Aside from one really bad cough, which lasted about four weeks (and the attendant torn intercostal rib muscle, which took two more months to heal), I’ve been healthy throughout the year. I did get injections in my knees—after a whole palaver with my employer’s crappy insurance plan—in March and April, but even though my orthopod’s office is in a hospital, I did not pick up any bugs in my visits there. Many, many thanks for that.

I have had the immensely good fortune to experience no food insecurity. You’d think that would not be remarkable in a first-world nation, but it needs to be said, because tens of millions of my fellow citizens are burdened by it. I am also fortunate enough to be able to contribute money to food banks and charities that help kids personally in small but life-changing ways, thanks to my job.

Speaking of which, I work with the most amazing team I’ve ever known. Especially after my last employer, this is a point of daily gratitude for me. A couple of weeks ago, one of my colleagues had me laughing so hard in a Teams chat that I literally could not see the screen because my eyes were leaking. It was like being at a Gallagher show. He also has my back when I’m pushing my comfort zone, for which I am always thankful.

During our year-end wrap-up, we each had to say what our strengths are, and others on the team could add to that. I would rather swallow ground glass than talk about myself, but after I hawked up a couple of things (“Words; I have many words.”), another colleague said, “[Bas Bleu] brings joy to the team.” I think that is the most amazing gift I have received in a very long time.

Last week I spied a bottle of Moët Brut Impérial, which I bought at Costco when I was living in Arlington. So it’s four years old. I asked myself, “Self—what are you saving this for?” So I put it in the fridge and opened it on the 23^rd. Lordy, but I’d forgot how wonderful it is. I finished it up last night, and I’m sinfully thankful for having had it.

I didn’t get to go to Sorrento this year. That was a blow, because I’ve spent many years not traveling because of lack of funds, and this year I had funds and unlimited PTO, and Sorrento was going to be my stake in the ground. Instead, I’ve focused on making some much-needed improvements to my house (yay, not blowing out the kitchen circuits when I have the microwave and toaster running simultaneously!). I’ve also fed about ten pounds of seed to the birds in the past month. That makes me so happy.

Speaking of birds—I saw bluebirds for the first time ever this year. What a thrill!

Last month, 81+ million voters gave Cadet Bonespurs the boot. It’s terrifying that 74 million people voted for him, and I’m dismayed that we didn’t take back the Senate. But still—the racist, narcissistic gasbag is going to be vacating the White House in less than a month, and that in itself is worth a few Novenas.

I’m not saying a word about his coup, but I’m grateful that so far it has been unsuccessful.

Throughout the more-or-less lockdown, friends left surprises at my front door, and I was able to do the same. Video chats were another lifeline, and I even had (socially-distanced, outdoor) brunch twice with a friend. 

During my single one-week staycation, I had some wonderful takeout dinners; wonderful. Many were from places I tried for the first time. What absolute luxury!

The rock lifted over systemic racism in America, and many very disgusting creepies slithered out. It is an appalling revelation, but the first step to finding solutions is taking a good, hard look at the problem. We’ll be working on this for a long time.

Last Tuesday, I finally got a driver’s license from the Commonwealth of Virginia. My third trip to the DMV since my California license expired at the end of August. I’m grateful I was wearing a mask for the entire time I was there (except for having the photo taken), because that papered over the expression on my face while dealing with the people at the Sterling office. No matter—I am street legal.

We have multiple vaccines against COVID-19, despite all efforts by the Kleptocrat’s administration to do the least possible amount of work while taking the maximum amount of credit, and by big pharma to reap obscene profits from the pandemic. I think I’m in Tier 3 of target vaccinations, which I am perfectly fine with—unlike corporate execs and Repug congressmorons, I have no intention of jumping the queue. Nursing home patients and staff, teachers, healthcare workers (including janitorial staff), first responders, essential workers—they all belong ahead of me in line. I’m grateful for the vaccine, and I’m grateful for the work of everyone who has spent the last ten months working to mitigate this global disaster. (That would be no one with an (R) after their name.)

I am so thankful for my weekly yoga lesson with a terrific teacher. I swear, without that to look forward to and to focus on, either I or some other people might not have made it through the year.

And, finally, I’m grateful that on Friday, we’ll be looking at 2020 in our rearview mirrors.

 

 

 

For ever and ever

I do love Messiah, both listening to it and singing it. Nothing gets your heart thumping by being in the middle of “Hallelujah”. Over the years, I’ve posted flash mob “Hallelujahs”, high school “Hallelujahs” and zither “Hallelujahs”.

This year I’m closing out the season with a different version entirely. In the past 12 months, we’ve suffered through multiple horrors—global pandemic, an expanding spate of police engaging in casual homicides of Black citizens and the downward-spiral of Cadet Bonespurs as he did nothing to ameliorate and in fact did everything he could to violate the Constitution and societal norms in the pursuit of power and profit.

It has, in short, been a fucking shitshow of a year, so crank up the volume and listen to Handel’s Messiah: A Soulful Celebration’s take on “Hallelujah”. I bought this album when it came out nearly 30 years ago, and it never fails to raise my spirits. I hope it does the same for you.

Merry Christmas; God bless us, every one.

 

Redeeming grace

“Silent Night” seems appropriate for today’s Advent piece. It is, after all, the über Christmas carol. And this year, I think we’ll have the Temptations singing it.

Call my true love to my dance

As Christmas carols go, “Tomorrow Shall Be My Dancing Day” is barely in its teens. It first appeared in a collection published in 1833. You shouldn’t even give it the keys to the family car.

What I like about this one is the metaphor of the Messiah’s life as a dance. (You may be more familiar with the modern “Lord of the Dance”—and I do not mean that crypto-Celtic Michael Flatley crap; I’m talking about the one set to the Shaker hymn, “Simple Gifts”.) There’s a version by John Rutter; ix-nay on that. This one, from that old reliable King’s College, Cambridge, Choir, is by John Gardner.

A song broke forth

Our Advent piece for today comes from Fisk University, a Historically Black institution in Tennessee, founded in 1865 to provide education for former slaves and their descendants. “Behold that Star” was written by Thomas W. Talley (1870-1952), chemistry professor, ethnographer and director of the university’s Mozart Society.

We don’t know when it was composed, but when Marian Anderson sang it, it was an arrangement published in 1912.

Last year I wrote about “Rise Up, Shepherd, and Follow”, and how spirituals were “safe” ways for slaves to communicate with one another, having been denied literacy. I still have issues with using religion to keep the masses in line—which applies to all masses in the face of the oligarchs, but especially to race-based control. Still, I love the imagery of the star of Bethlehem, and I’m willing to put aside my class warfare for the season.

I have a recording of Jessye Norman singing this, but this year I’m giving you the Morehouse-Spelman Choirs.

 

Gratitude Monday: bargain of the year

On Friday, my team met to do a retrospective of our recent product launch. I’ve been nagging at our manager for months to do this, because so many things made this launch more painful that strictly necessary.

We started with a think-outside-the-pattern exercise—what’s your spirit animal. Which is a little weird, not coming from a Californian. But then our manager asked for a recap of highs and lows over the past year, both personal and professional.

My worst moment was watching a week in Sorrento slip away because of the pandemic. But costs were higher in the team. One colleague’s father-in-law died from COVID19, another one’s stepmother also died, and he couldn’t go to Salt Lake City to help his father. And a third found out that his friend and mentor from agency days has committed suicide.

We all have paid a high toll throughout this year. But for me, if the worst thing that’s happened is a lost vacation, I am blessed. I know that; I just wanted to acknowledge it publicly.

 

 

Seven druids dance

Today is the Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year in the northern hemisphere. Starting tomorrow, the darkness retreats and light advances. For centuries, humans have helped this process along by lighting bonfires, making noise and drinking.

All seems perfectly reasonable to me.

One of the major bands of my youth was Jethro Tull. JT went through about every stylistic metamorphosis possible, from blues-rock to jazz-rock to folk-rock to progressive-rock to hard-rock. Today’s Advent selection is from the folky phase, “Ring Out, Solstice Bells”.

Although band frontman Ian Anderson wrote it in 1976, the lyrics definitely capture the centuries of celebration at the turning of the year, and it has a Renaissance exuberance to it.

The gate of heaven

Today is the last Sunday before Christmas. This is the time to focus on the stories of Mary and Joseph; it’s frequently called Annunciation Sunday. (Although, technically, if Jesus was born on the night of 24-25 December, the Annunciation would have been some time in March. I’m not going to get into the meteorological mare’s nest about whether or not the Nativity was actually in December.)

Toward that end, my selection for today is “Angelus ad virginem”, a medieval carol brought to England from France in the Thirteenth Century. Some versions of the song are reputed to have 27 stanzas. This one, performed by the King’s College, Cambridge, choir, does not.

You knew I had to have the King’s College choir, didn’t you?

We've been good, but we can't last

A friend saw yesterday’s post about the birds, and he asked about the squirrel that appeared in one of the videos. Because it seemed to be getting along with the birds in the frame.

Well, as you know, I have issues with squirrels. They’re cute, furry little landsharks who wreak havoc on my potted plants and vacuum up all the birdseed on the ground. But yesterday I gave the squirrel a pass.

(Fortunately, it was just the one. Some days I’ve had as many as five of them out on my patio, acting decidedly squirrely, and that is just not on.)

Anyhow, this squirrel appeared fairly early on in the storm, and he actually had a hedgehog appearance with the snow on his tail curled on his back.

Here he is in action

Well, tying this to Advent, I looked for a “Carol of the Squirrels”, which I did not find. However, there is this song about chipmunks, so here you go.

 

They sweetly did rejoice

On Wednesday we got snow here in the District They Call Columbia. It started around 0900 and by late afternoon it was replaced by rain. I am so glad I didn’t have to commute in it.

But throughout the day, my patio was visited by dozens of birds, so every hour I tossed out a couple more fistfuls of seed to make their stop worthwhile. Sparrows, cardinals, juncos, wrens, bluebirds. 

(Yes, bluebirds.)

It was just lovely to see them all out there hopping about and no squabbling. Yesterday, even the blue jays got along with everyone else.

So today’s Advent music is “The Carol of the Birds”, which is from Catalonia. Throughout his self-imposed exile from Franco’s Spain, cellist Pablo Casals closed his concerts with this piece; he believed it to be the most beautiful tune ever created, and its theme of peace—of all the birds getting along—seems particularly relevant right now.

I first heard “The Carol of the Birds” from a Joan Baez recording, so that’s what I’m giving you.

 

 

A thrill of hope

Apparently there was a TV show called “Studio 60”. And it ran, well, I don’t know, at least in 2005. I suspect it’s no longer on air, although I don’t know, and don’t really care.

But this year, while searching for new takes on Advent music, I came across this video of New Orleans brass musicians playing “O Holy Night”, and I was poleaxed. Clearly it’s having an effect on the characters, although I don’t know who they are and don’t much care. Because this rendition is stunning.

Also, I think the “All I want for Christmas is my city back” slide (3:01) resonates with us all. All we want is our nation, our democracy and our decency back.

Here’s hoping.

The righteous rejoice

We’re headed to the Sixteenth Century for today’s Advent music. Specifically to The Netherlands for a motet by Jan Pieterzoon Sweelinck. Sweelinck was the organist at the Oude Kerk in Amsterdam and composed a whole lot of organ and harpsicord music.

Today’s selection, “Hodie Christus Natus Est” might more reasonably be for Christmas day; I mean, it flat out says “Today Christ is born”. But I came across this particular performance and thought it was time we had a virtual presentation. This being the pandemic year, it seems like a major oversight not to have something that reflects the virtual concerts musical groups all over the world are putting on.

Basically, the text is from the liturgy of the vesper service for Christmas Day. It proclaims:

Today Christ is born
Today the Savior has appeared
Today the Angels sing
The Archangels rejoice
today the righteous rejoice, saying:
Glory to God in the highest
Alleluia!

I don’t know what to tell you about the singers, except that they seem to be based in the UK and their bass edited the video. Beautifully

 

A swell time

Let’s ratchet it up from yesterday’s Master of the Baroque to mid-Century Americana. I mean, let’s have Jerry Helms singing his 1957 “Jingle Bell Rock”. It’s hard to get too much different here, eh?

Yeah, not exactly Advent, but definitely seasonal.

Let me frame this by saying that “Jingle Bell Rock” will be forever associated for me with the opening of that iconic 1987 film Lethal Weapon. So that’s what I’m giving you:

It’s been probably a decade or two since I last watched the movie, but I was instantly struck by how absolutely 80s’ the woman is—hair, makeup and nails. Talk about yer blast from the past…

 

Gratitude Monday: a light show

We’ve had rather temperate weather the past couple of days. We’re supposed to be in for a storm on Wednesday with the dreaded “wintery mix”, but at the weekend it was really pleasant.

Saturday late afternoon I was fixing to close the drapes when I noticed that the pre-dusk light was in that magical stage, and I stood watching it for some time before I picked up the camera and shot these. Everywhere I looked there was something else gorgeous.

 

Including the golden light hitting some of the branches.

It was absolutely mesmerizing, and I am so grateful for light displays like these.

 

 

High the song of triumph

Well, here we are, more than halfway through Advent and no Bach. How did that happen? Gotta go to DEFCON 3, so we’ll have a cantata. Specifically, “Nun komm der Heiden Heiland”. (Literal translation: “Now the savior of the heathens comes”.)

“Nun komm” was written by our pal Martin Luther; when it comes to hymnody, Marty was right up there with the Wesley boys. Luther based it on an older plainsong, “Veni, redemptor gentium”—"O come, redeemer of the world”. The English version is a staple of the Lutheran hymnal as “Savior of the Nations, Come”.

Frankly, it’s not one of my favorites, because it’s so mournful-sounding. I mean—give me “Comfort, Comfort Ye, My People” or “Lift Up Your Heads, Ye Mighty Gates” (both translated by Catherine Winkworth) any day. But “Savior of the Nations, Come”? Meh.

Now, Bach’s cantata is a different matter altogether. So here we have a performance by the J.S. Bach Stifftung in a time-appropriate setting.

(Check out Mr. Big Seal-Clapper at around 17:20.)